


Count Your Heartbeats

by RiaTheDreamer



Series: Angst War [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Organ Failure, RvB Angst War, Sad Ending, Set on Chorus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14024826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: It is, ironically, Grif who taught him how to lie.





	Count Your Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



It is, ironically, Grif who taught him how to lie.

Simmons has always been taught to respect authority, that his father didn’t tolerate lying.

Grif is a natural born liar. He says he inherited it, and Simmons doesn’t find that statement particularly funny. He sees the pattern – first the lies about why his mother isn’t at the parent-teacher conference, then lies about why the rent is late, lies about what happened at the colony, lies about who ate the last cookie, about how many times he’s napped in one day.

Simmons is a bad liar.

“He’s sick,” Simmons tells her when she asks again, and somehow he hasn’t swallowed his tongue yet. Grif has taught him that the best lies include a bit of truth, and maybe that’s why the words have an easier time leaving his lips. “So, uhm, yeah… He’s not coming today, either.”

“I see.” Carolina nods and that’s a good sign – it means she’s buying it. Well, he hasn’t technically lied yet. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Despite the usual?” he snorts and laughs weakly until his voice breaks. It’s another one of Grif’s advices – distract them with jokes. Even if they aren’t that funny. He clears his throat. It hurts. “It’s…a cold? Yeah. It’s a cold. A cold one…. With coughing and- and sneezing. You know. A cold.”

“Maybe he should see Doctor Grey,” Carolina suggests but she isn’t serious. Simmons can hear the disbelief in her dry tone, and he can’t even bring himself to get mad. Grif’s has played the sick card so many times by now. It’s only natural for her to react like this.

And it does makes Simmons’ lie easier.

Maybe Carolina doesn’t truly believe him, but she believes enough of it to let him go, warning him that Grif better be ready for practice at the end of the week or she’ll give him her own _fist_ -made (“…Don’t you mean _‘_ hand-made?” – “No.”) cure against colds. He nods, laughs again.

They spent the rest of the hours running around in circles, and the irony isn’t lost on Simmons.

When the training session is done, he showers. When the water hits his face he can cry a little without the others noticing it.

It’s a trick he taught himself a long ago.

* * *

He buys two chocolate bars from the vending machine. It’s old and rusted, and it freezes twice so that Simmons has to slam his fist against it. He regrets it moments later, when he realizes he’s used his metal hand and the glass has cracked beneath it.

He hasn’t felt hungry since they received the news from Grey, but these are Grif’s favorites – marshmallow and crunch – and perhaps they can cheer him up. Maybe Simmons shouldn’t give these to him since the expiration date has long since passed, but he’d noticed the frown on Grif’s face earlier, when Simmons had been about to leave his room to join the others in the training session.

Grif has his eyes closed but he isn’t sleeping. When Simmons drops down in the chair next to his bed, he opens them to look at him. “’sup?” he asks.

For some reason Simmons doesn’t know how to respond to that. Well, he knows _how_ – he’s supposed to greet him back, a small wave with his hand or asking him how he’s doing, even though he’s afraid of the answer – but his throat feels constricted.

So he just hands over the snacks to Grif who raises an eyebrow before accepting them. He puts them on his night table instead of tearing off the wrapping and eating them in one mouthful.

Eventually, Simmons finds his voice. “Carolina says she’ll drag you out of bed if you don’t show up for training at the end of the week.”

“Well, that’s a cure.”

They both snort. Simmons knows that they can’t keep it a secret from the Freelancer forever. Grey had warned him that this can’t be kept hidden, not in the long run, not even from the Blues. But it’s alright if Carolina finds out, he supposes. She isn’t a Blue.

Simmons starts to wring his hands, looking out of the window instead. He knows that if he stares too long at Grif, he’ll begin to count all the tubes that Grey has connected him with.

“We ran tracks today,” he tells him, because back when Grif had been ordered to stay in bed, he’d asked for a daily update on the others (“Not that I care,” he’d said. “I’m just bored.”).

It’s been three days since they went to Grey, when Simmons had noticed enough symptoms to drag Grif to the doctor. The wheezing breaths had been the first sign, but how had he been supposed to know that it hadn’t just been Grif’s poor shape? Then the fever. Then the dazed look in his eyes.

It’d turned it hadn’t been a cold.

“Glad I missed out on that,” Grif says in a huff. He’s always been a good liar. “I fucking hate tracks.”

“Carolina didn’t go easy on us. I almost died.”

A moment later, Simmons bites his own tongue, regretting his words. 

* * *

“So do you think it’ll work?” Simmons asks for the third time.

At least Grey can forgive his eagerness. She’s still wearing her small smile when she says, “Well, I’ll appreciate the extra help!”

“My pleasure,” Sarge huffs, returning her smile before he sets his narrowed eyes on Grif, “I’ve been fighting the urge to cut Grif open for years now.”

“Does he really have to be a part of the surgery?” he asks dryly. They are gathered around his bed, all of Red team, and Grif keeps his arms under the blanket to cover the drips in his arms.

Sarge had taken the news rather well – coughing once before making a comment about Grif’s uselessness and inevitable doom. Lopez had just looked at him. Donut had cried (“But he’s so young!”) because Donut will cry if you give him a muffin or praise his outfit, so it shouldn’t be counted as a worrisome sign.

Things are fine. Grey is in charge and she has a plan and everything. Simmons doesn’t know much about transplanted organs, but he knows that Grey is a genius and that geniuses have a higher chance of success. Grif is in good hands.

“He performed the procedure on me,” Simmons points out because Grey has said Grif needs all the support he can get, and Simmons won’t let him worry about the surgery. He’s already worrying enough for both of them. “And I turned out fine.”

"Hay un agujero de bala en tu pie de metal.” [There’s a bullet hole in your metal foot.]

Grey clears her throat and gains the attention of the room. “While I can’t deny the impressiveness of Sarge’s surprising surgery skill, it is, however, important to note that he was in possession of the remains of a highly advanced robot kit.”

“And a fax machine,” Donut points out cheerfully, “and some other more interesting devices!”

Simmons feels an almost electric shiver run down his back and decides not to ask into that.

Grey is still smiling at them, but it’s small and almost weak. She continues, “And I’m afraid I don’t have access to the same resources. Right now our supplies are very limited, and in our current situation I doubt that to change very soon. Besides, I haven’t even finished the blueprints for the prototypes yet. It will take time before we reach a point where we’re ready for the surgery – perhaps too much time. So it’s important to keep all possibilities in mind.”

“You mean the standard transplantation?” Simmons’ mouth feels very dry. They had talked about it, of course. Grif receiving new organs. But even on Chorus, where death seems to be a part of the daily life, bodies were rarely left in a state proper for donation. Too many bullets and explosions, Grey had said.

But he can’t deny the fact:

There’s a third possibility.

Grey’s smile falters. “That too,” she says, and Simmons wrings his hands.

* * *

“How does it feel?” Grif’s asks him.

It’s late and Simmons has his nose buried in a book because Grif isn’t sleeping yet and he can’t bring himself to leave.

Grif adjusts his position, sinker deeper into his pillow and wincing when he accidently pulls at his IV. “The whole being Terminator thing,” he explains, staring at the ceiling. “Lucky me won’t get a fax for an ass, but there’s not a lot of people who has experience when it comes to guts of polymer.”

“There’s Lopez?” Simmons says. He doesn’t know why.

“Dude, I don’t speak Spanish. ‘sides, the guy has had his body torn apart so many times I hope he _doesn’t_ feel anything.”

Simmons puts down his book. When he crosses his legs, he becomes very aware of his cyborg leg. He twitches his foot. “It’s… not that different? I think. At least you’re just getting your organs replaced – not entire limbs.”

“So I don’t have to polish my ass?”

“I don’t polish my ass, Grif.”

He snorts and needs a moment to catch his breath. Simmons listens for the wheezing-sound, the raspy inhales that brought them here in the first place.

“So it doesn’t feel strange to be filled with wires and springs?”

Simmons has a memory of Grif bleeding out in the middle of Blood Gulch. Donut is crying and Sarge is fetching his shotgun. Simmons thinks about pillow talks and bandaged knuckles, and he makes a choice (“Uhm, sir? May I come with a suggestion?”) and he wakes up with a spinning sensation in his torso and a heavy feeling in his new limbs. The stiches hurt and it takes weeks before he can get his new eye to properly focus but when it works, he looks at Grif, and he thinks that it’s better than the alternative.

“It’s better than the alternative,” he tells him. “A heartbeat is a heartbeat. I mean, you kinda stole mine.”

* * *

He doesn’t want to be in charge of Gold Team’s training again. Grif’s men lack discipline – they’re sarcastic and rude and they don’t follow orders right away. They ask too many questions (“And just how long does a cold last?”) and then they pretend to not care.

Simmons is tired when the hour is finale done, and he stops in the middle of the hallway, slamming his hands against his face, trying to rub the exhausted expression away. Grif doesn’t need to hear his complaints, not when he already misses leading his team.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but Simmons can tell. The other day Grif complained about his bed. Grif has never criticized a bed before – he worships them. But he’s been stuck in one for too long now.

When Simmons removes his hands, he suddenly finds himself face to face with Carolina.

“Simmons,” she says, and he knows that she knows.

She says she’s sorry. He shakes his head. She asks if there’s anything she can do. He shakes his head. She asks if the others know. He shakes his head.

“Please don’t tell them,” he begs of her.

“Why?”

He steadies his breathing. “Grif doesn’t want it.”

He’s become better at lying.

* * *

“Maybe you should put on the mask,” he finally suggests, after having listened to the wheeze in Grif’s breathing grow worse and worse over the last hour. The raspy noise is back, painful and distracting, and he just wants it to go away.

Grey had said to support the organs, to help his body stay alive. The heart and lungs weren’t doing well, she’d said, fluid building up.

Grif stares at him, bags under his eyes, and the way his brows furrow makes him look almost offended. “The thing smells,” he says, looking at the oxygen mask in Simmons’ hand.

“I didn’t think you had a sense of smell,” Simmons says, keeping up a smile. “How else could you survive with only one shower at week?”

If Grif is trying to return the smile, he’s doing a worse job at it than Simmons.

“Please,” Simmons says, and Grif sighs before reaching for it. When it’s on, he inhales deeply.

Simmons does the same and tries to keep his hands from shaking.

* * *

“So,” Tucker says, cornering him in the middle of the cafeteria. “Where’s Grif?”

Simmons can feel him staring at him. He can feel all eyes in the cafeteria staring at him, every curious soldier, because Simmons hasn’t slept at all last night, there are bags under his eyes and his lip is bitten bloody and his hands won’t stop shaking.

“Why are you asking?” Simmons says, raising his chin.

“’cause he’s been gone for like weeks now, and I want to make sure you haven’t tied him up in a basement somewhere. It doesn’t seem like your style, but you never know.”

Simmons doesn’t laugh. He just tightens his grip on his tray, tries to keep it still.

Tucker crosses his arms. “Seriously, dude. It was taco night yesterday, and I didn’t even see him trying to sneak in for extra rations.”

“Why do you care?” Simmons asks. He can feel his lower lip crack open again. Maybe he should consider Donut’s offer about a makeover (“Your skin, Simmons, your poor skin! You really need a good night’s rest. I can always look after Grif if you-“) but he just doesn’t have the time.

Tucker isn’t wearing his helmet so Simmons can see the way he frowns. There’s confusion in his expression, and a bit of hurt, and it makes the anger flare up inside Simmons with newfound strength because it’s unfair that Tucker is confused – out of everyone he _should_ know.

And that’s why Simmons won’t tell him.

“C’mon,” Tucker says and he’s not backing off. He’s getting closer and closer, and Simmons wants to clench his fingers into fists but the tray is in the way. “Is Sarge starting a new Blue hunting season again? What the fuck is up with you guys?”

“I hate you,” Simmons says. It just slips out of his mouth, and it’s even easier than the lies he’s grown so used to tell.

Tucker widens his eyes, like Simmons just punched him in the stomach, and Simmons remembers the day when Grey told them (“O-organ failure?”) and he knows the feeling.

He should feel bad about the glee spreading through his veins.

But he doesn’t.

He shoves his tray against his chest plate, watching the ugly blue color get covered in coffee and toast.

The lack of sleep makes his head hurt, makes him nauseous. He probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

While Tucker drops his jaw, Simmons turns around and leaves the room, ignoring the stunned stares from the rest of the cafeteria.

* * *

Grif has just fallen asleep when Tucker appears in the doorway, silent like a ghost and his face darkened.

Simmons doesn’t know who told him. He doesn’t really care.

He gets up from his chair, his joints protest, and in long strides he marches over to the quiet Blue.

Tucker opens his mouth but Simmons moves too close and the Blues takes a step backwards. “Leave,” Simmons says, closing the door quietly so they won’t wake up Grif.

“Aw, hell no! What the fuck, dude. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because-“ Simmons says, and to his horror he can feel the hiccups wrecking his throat. He wants to keep his voice firm, he wants to insult, but he’s so, so tired and angry and scared. “-because-“

Grif has asked him not to (“I don’t want Caboose pilling trash in my room. The guy is all about building his friends new bodies. It’s not like the Blues can change anything. And in our current shit situation, you guys might get shot everyday. Let’s not-“) so Simmons has just done what’s asked of him.

But there are other reasons.

“You did this,” Simmons hiccups and then he flees down the hallway.

* * *

The next day Grif’s room is infected with Blues. Simmons comes to a halt a few feet away from the doorway, almost dropping the tray filled with Grif’s breakfast as he stumbles over his own legs.

Caboose and Wash and Tucker, with Church floating between them, are all gathered around Grif’s bed, Grif who is awake and talking to them.

The room seems very crowded.

So Simmons turns around and leaves.

He eats the breakfast himself, forcing the slices of bread down his throat, because supplies are dwindling every day that passes in this war.

When he goes to the laboratory, Grey isn’t there. He understands, of course. There was a new pirate ambush last night, and the doctor is probably busy right now, doing the best to keep the young soldiers alive. It doesn’t help on Simmons’ bitterness, though.

He walks past the sterilized worktables, watching foreign materials and tools he’ll never dare to touch. Eventually he finds Grey’s blueprints.

They look good. He can’t understand them, though, but they look good. There are words he’s never heard of before, and Grey’s handwriting does not make things easier.

But she’s a genius. There’s no need to worry.

Simmons looks at the blueprint of what is going to be Grif’s new heart, and he tries to understand.

But he can’t.

* * *

He spends the next three days in the laboratory, walking right at Grey’s heels and cracking jokes with Sarge about the Blues’ uselessness (“I mean, well, _Blues_ , right? So- _blue_ and- and annoying, and they really ruin everything, don’t they?”) and looking at blueprints while pretending he has everything under control.

Until Grey, very politely, asks him to fuck off.

“Maybe your support is more needed elsewhere,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, absolutely!” She lowers her voice and puts down the handheld laser. “I just returned from removing the extra fluid in his lungs. A thoracentesis isn’t that much fun – I’m sure he’d appreciate your company.”

Simmons does his best trying to not imagine the long, sharp needle slipping through Grif’s chest wall, so he just nods and turns around.

He finds Grif in his bed. Of course. There are no visitors in his room, mainly because Grif is asleep, so Simmons can slide into the chair without any judging glances.

“Hi,” he says when Grif opens his dazed eyes. “So, uhm, Sarge caused an explosion today. Just a small one, but Grey did ban him form the chemistry table.”

Grif listens to his rambling, and he doesn’t ask why Simmons threw food at Tucker or why he hasn’t visited him in three days.

It’s a part of the reason why Simmons loves him.

* * *

Grif complains about pains in his chest. That it’s like a tank is sitting on top of him (“And trust me,” he wheezes, “I know how that feels.”) and he can’t catch his breath.

Grey inserts more needles into him. More bags are hanging from the IV pole. Grif complains about the nasal cannula Grey makes him wear, but he doesn’t attempt to take it off.

“I’ll get you some water,” Simmons says, when Grif grows too restless, when he squirms and swears under his breath.

There’s a water dispenser in the hallway, and Simmons tries to fill the plastic cup, but his hand won’t stop shaking and the water runs over his fingers, but it’s his metal hand and he can’t feel it. He can’t move, can’t reach out to turn off the water, to stop it from spilling onto the floor, and he can’t stop shaking-

“Here,” Tucker says, taking the cup from his hand.

While Simmons slides down the wall to sit on the floor, Tucker wipes the water off the tiles with a tissue.

Tucker gives him the cup, tells him to drink.

Simmons does what he’s told, but then he remembers Grif who is in pain, who is thirsty and needs water more than Simmons.

The worry must have left his lips in a stutter, and Tucker tells him to calm down. He prepares another cup, asking if he should bring it to Grif.

Simmons looks up at him, sees the hesitant frown on Tucker’s face, and he can appreciate how he doesn’t just march inside the hospital room, now when Simmons has already told him to stay away.

“Thank you,” Simmons says and allows him to leave. Tucker nods, promising to be right back.

Simmons slams the back of his head against the white wall. He’s so tired. It’d been easy to blame the Blues because that’s just the standard procedure. It’d made sense. Tucker is the one who drove the tank.

It’d been nice, really, to have someone to blame.

But now the anger is spent, and Simmons can’t even find the strength to get off the floor, so he just stays down there and he wonders if he can blame his own shitty organs for slowly killing Grif.

* * *

Grif’s wheezing is louder than ever. Simmons can’t concentrate on reading, can’t concentrate on finishing his own sentences. He just listens to the sound of Grif’s lungs protesting against every breath.

It’s become hard to remember the time where Grif didn’t have to fight to breathe.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Grif says while staring at the ceiling, “we should totally steal a Warthog.”

It’s the middle of the night because Grif can’t fall asleep and Simmons won’t rest his eyes before he does. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, because earlier he overheard Grey talking about the risk of infections.

“C’mon,” Grif rasps, turning his head to look at him. The tubes rest on his cheekbones. “It’s been a while. Not like they’ll need it before tomorrow.”

“Where would you even go? We’re- There’s pirates everywhere. Remember?”

“I don’t know. Pirates aren’t a problem if we drive fast enough.”

Even if they make it to the motor pool without being spotted, it’ll still mean that Simmons will be the driver. He isn’t ready for that.

Despite what Grif says, Simmons knows he won’t be able to drive. He doubts he can even walk down the hallway at this point.

But he can hear the hope in the voice, the longing to get away from the bright ceiling lights and the smell of bleach. He feels it too. He wants to be in the Warthog with Grif again, to laugh and then yelp when he speeds up. He misses that feeling, too – to see the world become a blur around them, isolating them together.

Then he looks at Grif, and he wonders how he’ll ever untangle him from all the tubes. He wonders how long Grif can survive without the machines.

He doesn’t want to know.

“Maybe later,” Simmons says. “When you’re feeling better.”

* * *

The room feels too small. The machines beep too loudly, the constant hisses makes him feel nauseous.

Grif sleeps more now. A heavy sleep where he always wakes up confused and blinks for minutes before he seems to recognize him.

He won’t notice that Simmons has left the hospital wing. For honorable causes, of course. They are, after all, in the middle of a war and it would be wrong for Simmons to ignore that fact.

So he joins the others on missions, raises his rifle and pulls the trigger. Sometimes he wonders if he could hit them just right – so they could cut them open and give the organs to Grif. It’s a dark thought, of course, but he is a desperate man.

Last night he had a dream. There’s a latch in the middle of his chest. It’s locked but he tears it open with a knife, only to find a void instead of a heart. His chest is already empty.

“Simmons,” Carolina says one morning as they are about to head out. “I think you should stay here.”

He opens his mouth to ask her what he’s done wrong. If he’s too unreliable, if his aim is off, if he isn’t good enough.

Then he understands she’s talking about Grif’s condition, and he knows that there is absolutely nothing he can do to change that.

* * *

Grif talks about Kai a lot. Sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when he’s awake.

He asks a lot of questions that Simmons can’t answer (“D’ya think she’s still there? In Blood Gulch?”) but Simmons plays along and tries not to think about how Kai must be rotting inside her yellow armor.

“S’good,” Grif says after another round of painful coughing, “she’s not here. She said she’d hit me if I die. She’s… she’s got a really mean fist…”¨

Then he’s asleep.

* * *

Simmons wakes up the sound of screaming and he almost falls out of his chair.

Grif is twisting in his bed, flailing his arms around, yelling despite the lack of air in his lungs.

Grey appears from out of nowhere to calm him calm down, but Simmons is the one who convinces Grif that he is just seeing things, that the bats aren’t real, that things are alright.

* * *

“They’re done,” Simmons says. There’s no spit left in his mouth to swallow, and his throat keeps hurting. “The parts are done,” he says again, stomping a foot against the tiled floor. “He needs the surgery! You can’t-“

“Simmons,” Grey says and she has the patience to grab his hands and lead him to the nearest chair. “You know it’s not as easy as cutting his chest open and stuffing him full. I wish it’d be that simple – that surely would cut down our fatality rate.”

He knows it’s not that simple. That’s why it’s taken so long to complete the cyborg parts in the first place. But today, when he hid in the laboratory, the heart was on the table, complete and flawless and abandoned.

“But,” he says and he can’t seem to get his vision to focus again, everything is so blurred and unclear. “But you said-“

“That there’s a risk he won’t be able to survive the surgery.” She blinks, and her eyes are swimming with pity. “We tried, Simmons, and we did the best we could, but he’s not strong enough-“

“The heart is ready!”

“And I still need functional replacements for the lungs and kidney and liver,” Grey finishes softly. “And it’s already far too late. Even if I managed to come up with something useful, we’d still have to wait for him to become stable enough to survive surgery – and he won’t get better, Simmons.”

Simmons doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t look at the finished heart as he walks out of the room.

He goes straight to Grif and wakes him up by shaking his shoulder and tries not to panic when it takes Grif minutes to somewhat get his eyes to focus on his face. “Wha…?”

“Hi, Grif,” he says and his vison keeps swimming. “Hi. I was- I was thinking- Remember that Warthog ride? We should- we should do it now. Right? It’d- it’d be fun. It’s the middle of the night but I’m sure it’s fine and we can- we can stare at the stars and stuff and we- I can bring some blankets so we don’t get cold. You were right. It’s a good idea. Let’s go.”

Grif doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are all glazed over and half-closed. His skin is clammy when Simmons pulls at his arms, trying to get him out of bed.

But it’s like a deadweight and eventually Simmons has to let go. “It’s-“ His eyes keep stinging. “It’s okay. We can stay here. It’s- it’s fine. Here. Is there a movie you want to watch or-“

“Simmons,” Grif mutters, but he doesn’t say anything else.

* * *

The next day Simmons only leaves the room to go to the bathroom. He makes sure not to look in the mirror while he’s there.

When he returns, he freezes in the doorway when he sees Sarge in his chair, talking to Grif.

He’s too far away to hear what they are saying and he doesn’t dare to go closer.

* * *

Grif gets fever dreams. There’s a slight whine in his breathing when he twists and turns, unable to find rest. Simmons hopes they’ll pass soon.

Then his dreams heavier. He doesn’t twitch any longer, doesn’t grimace in his sleep. He just lies still, eyes closed, machines beeping in a slow rhythm.

He doesn’t even move when Donut brings in all the visitors – the Blues, the Freelancers, Kimball and Doyle, the Lieutenants and that one soldier from Gold Team that won’t stop crying.

But when Simmons is alone with Grif, he sneaks his hand into his, and he is pretty sure Grif can recognize the cold touch of the metal, because Simmons swears he can feel a squeeze.

* * *

Donut has chased him around all day, trying to get him to talk about _feelings_ and _grief_ and _acceptance_. He’s holding one of Grey’s pamphlets, and he waves it around until Simmons yells at him to leave him alone. Simmons feels bad afterwards and decides he’ll apologize to Donut later.

They all mean well.

But it’s almost a relief when the others leave Grif’s ward in the evening.

Simmons shifts the weight on his feet awkwardly, suddenly too uncomfortable to sit down in his chair. He stares at Grif who sleeps so heavily that he won’t wake up again. For a moment Simmons is bitter enough to envy him. He knows it’s a horrible thought, but he’s just so, so tired.

His eyes hurt, sting, and he dims the light in the room. The machines continue to blink, to beep.

Simmons looks at Grif who seems oddly small in his bed, despite the painful swelling his body went through first. He looks peaceful, Simmons then decides.

He keeps remembering scenes from the past (“I’m Grif by the way.”) until the room is suddenly too cold. His teeth are chattering.

There’s no one to stop him as he slowly crawls into the bed. He is careful of all the tubes connected to Grif’s arms as he slides under the blanket to lie next to him.

“Goodnight, Grif,” he says, and when he closes his eyes the familiarity of the situation is stronger than ever. He remembers sharing bed like this after the Valhalla incident, body pressed against Grif’s and fingers buried into his dark hair.

Grif is very warm.

Simmons hugs him closer, and a big sigh of relief wrecks through is body as he presses his face against his neck.

He’s so tired.

And, eventually, Simmons falls asleep next to Grif.

Only one wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Creatrixanimi: “Grifs transplant organs slowly start to give out and red team tries to hide the gravity of the situation from the others.”  
> This girl wants pain, so I tried to make this fic as painful as possible. Thank you for the prompt! <3
> 
> I know I also prompted for Grif having organ failure, but I sent that prompt before receiving this one, and I just had to write for this. Oh well. Can’t be enough of this sort of angst!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the pain! (I’m so sorry, Grif, I am really not being nice to you in this angst war). If things go right, I still have the time to finish two more prompts before the war ends!


End file.
